


won't you take my hand, like i know you will

by aceofdiamonds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>seamus and dean throughout the years</p><p>“This is the night, Dean,” he shouts into Dean’s ear along with the song and Dean sings it back, face open and happy. They turn in circles and step on each other’s feet and they never let go of the grip they have on each other, be it a hand on a waist or a shoulder or hand-in-hand. Seamus throws his head back and laughs when Dean mimes along to the song, hand clutching his chest in exaggerated emotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	won't you take my hand, like i know you will

**Author's Note:**

> your basic friends becoming more scenario tbh. seamus and dean are one of those pairings i've always thought to be canon in a way but never really thought about much more than that, so this has been fun. title is from apollo by magic man

 

 

Seamus arrives at Hogwarts a bundle of nerves and hope and the itch to learn magic just like his mam. In the line for the Sorting he stands with his new best friend Dean Thomas who has never heard of Quidditch or Gryffindor or or or anything at all about the world Seamus has grown up in, a combination of Dean’s and magic. 

He meets this boy and he's only eleven, he doesn't much about the world at all, but he knows that Dean is special.  
  
It's not time for that, though, not with exploding spells and all the things he has to teach Dean, all the wizard chess and the rules of Quidditch and the legend behind Harry Potter, the boy sharing their dormitory. He cracks jokes and he peers over Dean’s shoulder when they’re struggling with their essays at midnight the day before McGonagall wants them and he thinks that Dean is the best friend he’s ever had.

 

.

 

“You should invite Dean over to stay later in the summer,” his mam says, the second week of summer and the fourteenth day of Seamus dropping Dean into every other conversation.  
  
And on one hand that's the best idea he's ever heard but on the other it seems so overwhelming, almost too much, to have Dean with him in his house, where he can show him everything about his life. He thinks about showing Dean his collection of Chocolate Frog cards because Dean’s been trying to build up his own collection and maybe they could swap some and also, _oh_ , also, he could take Dean down to the pond at the park where some of the older kids have charmed the water to change colour every few days depending on the weather. And they can build forts and play wizards and goblins and a couple of games of Quidditch and and and --

“Okay, mam, I’ll go write him a letter right now,” and then he bounds up the stairs two at a time already writing out in his head all the things they can do.

 

.

 

There’s a moment during that week Dean comes to stay, in amongst the Quidditch and the swapping cards and the laughing about everything they can think of, that they’re lying in their beds at night, Seamus on a sleeping bag on the floor, Dean in Seamus’s tiny single bed, and Dean asks if Seamus has ever kissed anyone.

It seems a huge question. They’re only twelve, how can anyone possibly have the time to kiss someone, what with everything else they have to do? But yeah, Seamus has thought about a bit, thought about how he thinks his first kiss might go, if he ever reaches it, but he thinks that his thoughts are something he might keep to himself for the moment, even from Dean, because he thinks that maybe wanting to kiss a boy isn’t what Dean is going to say.

But Dean doesn’t really say anything, either, just mumbles about almost doing it once but then someone chickened out -- Seamus suspects Dean was the one who chickened out from the muttering he’s doing now -- and then one of them brings up something Goyle did in Potions last term and that sets them off laughing again, any semi-serious topics about growing up and kissing fading away into nothing.

 

.

 

It _almost_ happens in fourth year.

There’s the excitement of the Tournament and supporting Harry and Cedric and Hogwarts and then on top of that there’s the Yule Ball where everyone dresses up and goes mental and dances all night to the Weird Sisters -- Merlin, Seamus still can’t believe Dumbledore managed to get the _Weird Sisters_.

“The _Weird Sisters_ , Dean,” he says, taking a gulp of his Butterbeer and gesturing wildly towards the stage.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve said that, Shay,” Dean laughs. “I know, I can’t believe they’re here either.”

“You don’t even like them,” Seamus points out. “You said that Myron Wagtail sings like someone’s squeezing his bollocks too tight.”

Dean laughs, ducks his head, and doesn’t deny it. “They have that one good song,” he says lamely.

“It’s okay, D,” Seamus declares, his hand dropping onto Dean’s arm. “You don’t have to like to them just to impress me,” and then he goes one further and winks, “You already have me, mate.”

“You’re an arse,” Dean groans, and then he cocks his head towards the stage where the rest of the school are dancing. Lavender had been with them until a few minutes ago when she’d disappeared with Parvati, Padma, and a couple of Beauxbatons boys towards the dancefloor. She had patted Seamus on the shoulder as she left and thanked him for a great evening so he’s not feeling guilty at all for sitting with Dean. He rests his chin on his hand and watches Dean’s mouth curve into a smile, his head still tilted towards the dance floor. “This is the song I like. Come dance.”

“Oh, now it’s _your_ song we get to dance,” Seamus flips back as he gets to his feet, taking a final sip of his Butterbeer before he lets his arm fall onto Dean’s shoulders and leads them over to the crowd.

They stop just short of the throng of people with sweat pouring off them and their hair flying everywhere. Seamus catches Hermione’s eye where she’s right in the middle with Viktor Krum and he grins, her returning the gesture with one of her own, looking like she’s having the time of her life and entirely unlike the Hermione Seamus has grown up with.

Seamus turns away and grabs Dean’s hand, pulling him into a dance unsuitable for the rhythm of the song, but Seamus is feeling giddy and light, the four Butterbeers he’s had sitting high in his stomach making him feel like he could float. He holds Dean’s hand tighter to stop him from trying.

“This is the night, Dean,” he shouts into Dean’s ear along with the song and Dean sings it back, face open and happy. They turn in circles and step on each other’s feet and they never let go of the grip they have on each other, be it a hand on a waist or a shoulder or hand-in-hand. Seamus throws his head back and laughs when Dean mimes along to the song, hand clutching his chest in exaggerated emotion.

They stumble up the stairs as the hall begins to empty and the songs come to an end and they lean into each other for support when they’re overcome with the weak, unstoppable laughter that’s been bubbling through them all night.

“It was a pleasure,” Dean says when they reach their dormitory, bowing deeply to Seamus, Harry and Ron in their beds and Neville’s still empty.

“The pleasure’s all mine, mate,” Seamus simpers, returning the bow with equal stupidity. “You were an easy date.”

“Oi,” Dean replies, shirt halfway off his head. “Watch it. I don’t want my reputation tarnished.”

“I’ll protect you, babe,” Seamus promises, struggling out of his own robes. He catches Dean’s eye as they fumble into their pyjama bottoms and they both grin, cheeks flushed and mouths sore from smiling.

It doesn’t even occur to Seamus that there could be anything more to this moment than the incredible feeling of having the best night of his life with his best friend.

 

.

 

Here is when the perfect time approaches and then passes by:  
  
It's a month after Dean and Ginny broke up and yes, Dean nods when Seamus asks him at least three times a week, yes it was a mutual decision, yes their time had run, yes he’s completely fine with Harry snogging Ginny every five seconds, stop asking him, Shay, but Seamus can’t stop needling him about it, can’t stop making sure he’s fine, because look, now’s when he should tell him. He should tell him about all the thoughts he’s been having since as early as fourth year. How sometimes he thinks about leaning up and kissing Dean when he’s in the middle of talking about his art because he gets so passionate and his eyes light up and Seamus wants to taste how happy he is, right in those moments. He should tell him how sometimes he thinks about life after Hogwarts and how their two lives are going to fit together because six years into this bordering on co-dependent relationship Seamus is having trouble picturing a life that Dean isn’t a part of. He should tell him about those two months when he met up with Terry Boot to snog in the empty Transfiguration classroom. Dean knows about Terry and those two months but Seamus should tell him about how he prepositioned Terry on the basis of his height and how he looks kind of like Dean a little and how it lasted way longer than it should have because Seamus couldn’t let go of that stupid little fantasy.

He should tell Dean all of this but he doesn’t. He almost gets there, yeah, that’s true, but when he opens his mouth and says “Dean?” Dean is so understanding and patient that that somehow makes Seamus freeze up and shake his head, nothing.

“You up for a game of chess?” Dean says instead when Seamus continues to not speak. Everyone always says that Seamus never knows how to shut up, that he talks more than a house elf on drugs, but Dean knows that sometimes Seamus runs himself so far that all he can do is close his mouth and hope his brain doesn’t overwhelm him too.

 _See_? See how well Dean knows him. See how well they go together. They’re best friends, and that’s plenty.

“Sure,” Seamus says now, mouth kicking up into a smirk. “If you can handle getting your arse beat -- _again_.”

“I could beat you blind, Finnigan,” Dean tosses back, leaning to reach under his bed for his set. “If only you didn’t cheat every bloody time.”

And then Dean’s sitting back up again, chess set in hand, and his body's warm against Seamus’s and all those things Seamus stopped himself saying moments ago are suddenly sitting in his mouth, right under his tongue, waiting for him to open up and spit them out. He opens his mouth and Dean pauses in whatever he was going to say and waits, his eyes soft on Seamus’s as if he knows what he’s going to say and that he’ll be happy to hear it.

So Seamus opens his mouth and his eyes flicker to the swell of Dean’s lip and he wants so badly to lean in and kiss him, if only for that one burst of pleasure he knows it’ll give him, and Dean, Dean doesn’t even look like that’s something he would be against from the way he shifts a tiny bit closer, his own breathing coming quick to match Seamus’s.

He breathes out a litany of _Merlin_ s and _Jesus_ es and his lips are forming the _fuck it_ that’s going to have finally going for it when the door flies open and Ron bursts in, muttering something about Lavender and hiding and Seamus and Dean bounce their gazes away from each other, their breathing slows back down, and Seamus’s world goes back to normal.

 

.

 

They get another moment during the summer when everything is dark and terrifying and Dean’s panicking about his mum and what they’ll do to her if she doesn’t stick around. He sits at Seamus’s kitchen table one day during the visit that has become tradition over the years and all he does is nod when Seamus’s mum says they’ll step in if anything happens, worry about yourself, Dean, we’ve got your mam and your stepda.

Seamus’s mam continues to assure Dean not to worry, he’s safe with them, as she leaves the kitchen.

“She’s right, D,” Seamus says, shuffling his chair around the table until he’s beside Dean. “You do what you need to do,” which is something that tears at his throat as he says it but he _needs_ to, if Dean wants to stay alive longer than a couple of months more. “We’ll keep an eye out for any trouble with your family.”

And Dean nods and keeps his gaze averted from Seamus because he’s so close to crying and Seamus understands and just keeps close, just in case. They’ve never come close to discussing that flash of a moment in the dormitory in May but when Seamus lowers his head onto his folded arms and Dean does the same so their faces are inches from each other he knows that he can’t stop thinking about it and he thinks that maybe Dean is the same.

Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs, the exhale strong enough to push the air onto Seamus’s arm, and Seamus watches as Dean draws himself back together, looking entirely too brave and stoic for what the next year is going to bring them.

“You’re my best mate,” Seamus says quietly. Hidden in which is of course _i love you_ and also _i miss you_ and _i’m so sorry this is happening to you._

“‘M gonna miss you, Shay,” Dean says to that and then, boldly, almost childishly, he adds, “ _Fuck_ Voldemort,” which is a thousand times more explicit than Seamus’s words.

They’ll survive. Seamus has always been stupidly optimistic.

 

.

 

Seamus hugs Dean goodbye at the end of July, his hands pushing under Dean’s t-shirt and pressing against the heat of his skin, and he wants for everything to be different, not so he can kiss Dean, he’s way beyond that now, no, he wishes for You-Know-Who to be dead and for Dean to be safe. That’s all he wants.

Dean’s hand moves up and down Seamus’s back, slow, steady, and when he says _bye, i’ll see you soon, mate, i promise_ , Seamus almost believes him.

 

.

 

This is when it happens:

It happens after eleven months of being apart, after torture and death and terror sucking the very life out of both of them. It happens after Seamus struggles to sleep through the knot of worry lodged deep in his throat, the coil of anger that sleeps in his belly, waiting and waiting for the news that Dean has been caught, killed, taken from him. It happens after the war is won and Voldemort is dead and Dean is beside him again.

“Shay --” he starts to say, dark circles so big under his eyes that Seamus knows are mirrored on his own face. They should sleep now, maybe they’ll both be able to, now that they know the other is alive. But Dean says “Shay,” and Seamus throws his arms around his neck and shoves his face in Dean’s neck and holds on.

“You’ve always been so fucking tall,” he mumbles into the hot skin of Dean’s neck, his mouth brushing over a cut that looks days old. Seamus hates that he knows so much more than he should ever have about cuts and bruises and the breaking of bones. “Will you ever stop growing?” which is a hidden question of _how did you stay alive?_ along with the hidden answer: _please don’t ever stop_ and _please don’t ever leave_.

“Maybe you should catch up,” Dean says, the words hitting Seamus’s ear where they reshuffle themselves into, _okay, i won’t leave_ and this is all getting too much for Seamus, this is going to make him do something stupid like cry in front of basically everyone they know and so he snorts into Dean’s t-shirt and then he pulls back, slowly, slowly, because he’s changed his mind, he doesn’t care if they look soppy, he doesn’t want to give this up.

“I’ve missed you, D,” he says, because now’s the time he’s so fucking honest, after he’s felt death and watched others suffer more than he’ll ever know. _This_ is the time. “I love you,” he goes on to say and you know what? He’s not even nervous or scared as he says it because all those other things they’ve lived through the last year have put so much into perspective that asking for a little love doesn’t feel like much at all, even if really it’s as big as the world.

And Dean’s tired bruised face creases into a smile and honestly, that’s enough, that’s all Seamus needs. But then Dean wraps his arms around Seamus again and pulls him against him and ducks his head to rest on Seamus’s shoulder, and, okay, yes, this is what Seamus was holding out for. This is all he’s been waiting for.

“I’m so tired, Shay,” Dean breathes, the words slurring together. “Let’s go to bed.”

This is what Seamus can do -- he can disentangle himself from Dean’s limbs and he can slip his hand into Dean’s and he can lead him from the room where everyone is milling around, caught between being at a loss at what to do now and mourning their dead, and he walks them slowly up their dormitory.

Inside Harry, Ron, and Hermione are sprawled across two beds pushed together, their bodies twisted together in a way that is so desperate and content at once that Seamus can’t bring himself to look at them for too long lest he cry for them and no one needs that at the moment.

Instead he allows Dean to fall back onto Seamus’s bed and tugs until Seamus falls too and somehow, miraculously, Seamus finds the energy to spell the curtains shut and then he drops his head, half of him landing on Dean, the other half hanging off the bed, and he falls asleep.

 

.

 

It’s the next day, the beginning of the healing of the wizarding world, when Seamus wakes up and twists, catches Dean’s eyes where he’s lying on the bed beside him, and then, without thinking about anything more, he leans up and presses his lips to Dean’s. Easy.

“Morning breath,” Dean whispers, breaking both of them into giggles bordering on hysterical.

“Shut up,” Seamus groans, head tipping back. Dean’s hand comes up to catch him, his hand curving along the line of Seamus’s jaw, his thumb gentle on the scar that stretches from his mouth to his eye. “You’re a right sight if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Like you can talk,” Dean replies, his other hand tracing the bruise that decorates the top of Seamus’s arm. Seamus can’t bring himself to reach out and touch any of the injuries strewn across Dean’s body for fear of causing him anymore pain. “Look at us. Coupla messes.”

They get up, silent as they make their way to the bathroom past the three sleeping bodies still curled up, Ron’s snores bursting through the quiet every few seconds. Neville hasn’t come back, they notice, but they know that he’s okay, it’s fine.

In the bathroom they jostle each other for the toothbrush, the action mundane and surreal in the calm following the war. Dean hasn’t been here since last year and Seamus has been living in the Room of Requirement for the last few months but they both feel at home in the little bathroom they’ve grown up in, sharing Seamus’s toothbrush with a quick _Scourgify_ between uses.

They should get back downstairs and start helping with the clean-up but Seamus selfishly wants to hold onto these final few moments they have. He has his best friend back, they’re both alive, he has to work through that in his mind before he explodes.

When he turns to say this to Dean he barely gets a word out before Dean is leaning down and cupping Seamus’s face and then he’s kissing him. It’s a proper kiss this time, no peck, no way of explaining it away later. It’s earnest and sweet and Seamus pushes up into it, his fingers scrabbling for purchase in the soft material of Dean’s t-shirt where it’s bunched over his shoulders. Seamus opens his mouth to the soft slide of Dean’s lips against his own and he allows himself to be gently backed up against the wall, his body wriggling and jostling Dean’s until they’re pressed together in as many places as possible. Their mouths part briefly for a breath and then they’re slanting together again, lips catching and teeth meeting in clashes that make them huff laughter into the space between them. Seamus’s brain is fuzzy and his chest is tight with the feeling of being allowed something he’s been wanting for so long and his fingers feel clumsy when they slide up into Dean’s hair. He can’t catch his breath.

It’s soft and familiar and worth all the missed chances that have been leading up to it.

Seamus is the one to draw back, his eyes opening to the sight of Dean running his tongue over his bottom lip where Seamus has just kissed him. He lets his head fall back against the wall and Dean follows him back, his forehead touching his. It feels surreal, to be here after all this time, after everything they’ve been through, and Seamus can’t stop the laughter that breaks from him.

“Are you laughing at me?” Dean asks, voice low, rasping. He doesn’t sound put out -- he proves this by pressing a kiss to Seamus’s cheek, just under his eye and inches from the top of his scar.

“A little,” Seamus admits.

“I’ve always been the funny one,” he says, laughing when Seamus’s fingers find the spot in his side where he’s always been ticklish. “Stop,” he gasps. “Stop -- I need --”

“What do you need?”

Dean answers by kissing Seamus which, honestly, what a fucking move. Seamus doesn’t pretend to be annoyed, knows he wouldn’t be believed if he tried, and sighs into the kiss, an arm winding around Dean’s neck as he rocks onto his tip-toes to try and narrow the height difference. Dean catches onto what he’s doing and curls his shoulders down, his hand slipping down the length of Seamus’s side to tug at his waist and pull him closer. “Gonna have to find you a box,” he mumbles into Seamus’s mouth, turning his head to kiss Seamus’s jaw, his cheek.

“Or give you a Shrinking Potion,” Seamus replies, mouth moving over the curve of Dean’s jaw and up to his ear where he presses a kiss to the patch of skin he’s been wanting to kiss for months and months now. He smiles when Dean moans quietly, moves back to kiss the moan from his mouth, that giddy feeling filling him up again. “If I knew kissing you would take so much trial and error --”

“You would’ve done it sooner,” Dean finishes for him, drawing back so Seamus can see the sparkle in his eyes. He still looks so tired, the last ten months dragging his features down, but Seamus can see the boy he knows and loves behind all that fatigue. He knows now that they’re going to be all right.

“I should’ve,” he says, eyes on the bruise that covers a large part of Dean’s collarbone.

But Dean shakes his head. “No, I think it needed to be now.” Now that they know the horrors of the world and the extra parts of life that shouldn’t be hidden away. It took almost a year of Dean running for his life and Seamus protecting half the school from torturers in the guise of teachers for them to actually do something, for them to lead to this.

“We should go and help,” Seamus says now because otherwise he’ll kiss Dean again and he’ll tell him he loves him and while they’re both important and need to be done, the work that’s needed to be done now is crucial. “C’mon, try and keep your hands to yourself for an hour, D, I know you can do it. I have faith in you.”

“You wanker,” Dean laughs, shaking his head, and he steps away so Seamus can push himself off the wall. “You know what the worst part about the last few months has been?” he says, tone light as he drapes his arm around Seamus’s shoulder.

“What?”

“Not seeing that stupid smirk you do when you tell a joke that only you find hilarious,” which is a pretty fucking romantic thing to say actually, as these things go.

“I hate you,” Seamus says to this. “I’m the funniest person you’ve ever met.”

“I dunno, Shay, Griphook came out with a couple of good jokes --”

Seamus cuts him off by shoving his hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare.” Behind his hand Dean’s eyes light up and he can feel the curve of his smile against his palm. “Stop smiling -- I’m funnier than a goblin, okay? Goblins are _known_ for being dull and humourless --”

He cuts himself off when they reach the common room and find it filled with people, all in varying degrees of exhaustion and euphoria. He lets his hand fall from Dean’s mouth, glaring at the smile Dean shoots him. They nod at people who wave over to them, say hi to Neville by the fire, and convey their sympathies to those who have lost someone. The last year has shown Seamus how resilient people can be in the face of constant danger but there’s nothing to say when a family member or friend has been killed. He feels a burst of shame for spending the last few hours up in his dorm, for kissing Dean, for laughing.

He must tense up because Dean’s hand squeezes his own, once, twice. “Don’t,” he says softly in his ear. “Don’t think what you’re thinking. That’s the wrong way to go about it.”

It’s not until they’re out in the corridor, the portraits around them blank as their occupants flock to the main areas down in the lower floors, that the shame edges away. “You’re right,” he says.

Seamus leans up and kisses Dean one more time, quick, not lingering or else he’ll get caught up again. When he pulls away and opens his eyes he finds Dean’s hand and links their fingers. They’re not flaunting their happiness in the face of others’ tragedies but they’ve both been through a war and made it to the other side and they’re taking comfort in the fact that they have each other.

Dean grins and it’s so bright Seamus has to blink and he almost looks away. 

“Hey, Dean,” Seamus says, “you were worth the wait.”

Dean nudges him in the side and calls him a soppy bastard for that but he's still got that grin on his face and that's enough.

 

 

 


End file.
